


Possibly the Reason

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, known you for a really long time before canon AU, with a side of soul mate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go waaaaaaay back (besides, it's in my blood, you should be calling me captain).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. une saison en enfer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup comment if you like

The small child is sitting in his front yard, the harsh summer Earth sun beating down on his thinly veiled back. His t-shirt is worn – a favourite, washed time and time again – and he is fatigued from a morning of playing hide and seek with his pet cat.

He doesn’t like it very much, but he supposes, in a childish way, it’s his closest friend.

This young boy is named Lavernius Tucker, born and bred on Earth by his father, who was often working, two jobs only enough to keep the family stable, and his mother, who had left many years ago.

Tucker didn’t consider it a broken home; he doesn’t remember her. He’s very fine on his own, thank you very much. As a seven year old, he considers himself _particularly_ mature for his age. (His teacher disagreed, but she was wrong about everything).

It’s with childlike wonder that he inspects the adults across the road pulling up to the small cottage, a trailer tagging behind with the looks of few belongings. He doesn’t end up paying much attention the grown-ups, though, as he eagerly watches a boy about his size step out from the back.

Really, he was tired of the black-and-white cat as his only company. “Hi!” he calls out, trying to project his high-pitched voice. The blond boy turns and waves softly; it’s easy to make out the freckles that dot his face, his arms, his knees. Tucker has never seen so many. A spontaneous desire flares within him, irresponsibly forgetting to check for traffic for a closer look of the new boy, bounding up.

“Name’s Tucker,” he happily introduces himself. “What’s yours?”

“David.” His posture is timid, shy at the first meeting of somebody in this town. “How old are you?”

“Seven!” Tucker is trying to pay attention, but he’s attempting to count all the freckles, except it’s a fair guess there’s over a hundred and he can’t count past that. He gives up before ten.

“I’m eight.” David begins to walk around the side of the sky blue car, an old model similar to Tucker’s dad’s. Well, most cars looked alike. They were all pretty much the same.

“What’d you move here for?” He skirts around to look at the boxes and suitcases, inspecting their age, travel stickers from planets Tucker had only seen in picture books.

“My parents are in the military.” The answer is succinct, but Tucker is not quite satisfied.

“Why?” he begins to poke the small one, with kitten stickers and a skateboard drawn in marker.

“That’s mine, don’t peel the kitties!” David intervenes on Tucker’s pokes and prods, grabbing onto the handle with determination. “It’s their job. We come and go every now and then. Sometimes I live on ships, sometimes we come back to Earth.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Boring? What’s boring about space?” David tries to walk past Tucker to begin storing away his baggage.

“Can I call you Davie? David’s a fucking mouthful.”

“Hey! Who taught you to swear?”

“TV. My next door neighbour. It’s bad, I like it,” Tucker admits, with little embarrassment, just the confidence of a child discovering language.

“Don’t get me in trouble. I don’t really like the name Davie. Why can’t you just call me David?” The suitcase swings between his knees, waging his height against his new friend. “Besides, I’m taller and older. I get the proper sounding word. Actually, just call me captain!”

“No way! You’re probably a really bad leader.” Tucker giggles, imagining himself serving somebody like the slender boy before him. “ _I’d_ be the best captain ever.”

“You wouldn’t. I’ve grown up with this sort of stuff, it’s in my blood!” He hears his parents call him, and they skip off together in their preadolescent fashion. “Mama, this is my friend Tucker.”

“Hi,” Tucker greets David’s mother, a sudden shyness overcoming him.

He’s not one for cleaning or having to _do_ stuff, so Tucker just watches Davie make his bed and put his action figures on the pine dresser.

“If you’re going to watch, you could have at least bothered to help!” Davie indignantly scolds Tucker, who had claimed the freshly assembled bed and clean blanket.

“No, Davie, it’s your job, not mine.” He smiles at his _witty_ reply (he is very clever for a seven year old, yes).

“Don’t call me Davie!” Spinning around and almost knocking over the carefully positioned models, he tries to convey his emotions to Tucker. It didn’t help, as it seemed the angrier he became the more pleased Tucker was.

When Davie visited Tucker, the first thing he did was cuddle the fluffy cat of Tucker’s and ask its name tenderly. “I just call her ‘cat’. Isn’t that what you do?”

“No!” he cries, sending a glare to Tucker. “All right, well, I’ll name her Hartford.”

“What? What sort of name is that?” It _is_ his cat.

“My dad is from there. Besides, it’s better than just ‘cat’!” Davie lies in the grass and watches the cat softly. Tucker has never seen anybody that nice to her. (Then he remembers nobody does that because she’s likely to---)

“Ow! Ow!” groans Davie. “I forgot cats have claws.” Tucker bowls over, sniggering at Davie’s expense for invading Hartford’s space. He watches the figure before him roll about in the grass, the shade from the lone tree and sunshine peeking through, littering the boy’s body before him. It’s been clear skies for weeks now, and despite the temperatures Tucker loves it. It’s nice having a friend to share it with now.

The feeling is sweet, for a kid that hates the annoying kids at school, but it’s not too long before Davie has to leave again with his parents.

“I’ll come back, I swear,” he promises. “Pinky swear. Cross my heart!”

Tucker is sullen, a sulky pout forming his face. “I don’t want you to go or have to pinky swear. I want you to stay! Why are you leaving me?”

“I have to, Tucker. You know, spaceships!” he moves closer to his friend and holds his pinky out. “I will be back.”

He purses his lips, mistrusting of Davie – because maybe Davie won’t come back. “All right, Davie.”

“I told you, I’m not---”

“You’ll always be my Davie!” Tucker insists. They squeeze their fingers, sealing the moment.

It’s late in the afternoon, and Hartford had given up chasing warm spots and claimed Tucker’s bed inside. The winter wind left the two friends shivering, but Tucker knew he’d brave the cold so he could say farewell to his best friend. They were best friends now, yes. They look at each other sadly, both trying to commit their blooming friendship to memory.

\---

The path back home from the local school is short, but today’s walk seems to take Tucker eons. Each concrete slab was repeated, the cracks providing some rhythm but otherwise not distracting the boy. His backpack weighed heavily on his preteen body, wondering where Hartford will have found to curl up.

Around the final corner, Tucker sights a car he hasn’t seen since he was seven. Davie is back, stepping out from the backseat like five years ago. He’ll be thirteen now, and he was at least three inches taller than Tucker.

“ _Davie!”_ yells Tucker, reminiscent of his first greeting, throwing his bag aimlessly to the side. “ _Davie!”_

Davie finds the source of noise and he recognises that grin, the waving arms and exuberance. He knows Tucker is rarely this active except for a purpose.

“Tucker,” he speaks as the other boy comes closer. “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?”

“What sort of fucking time do you call this?” Tucker has one hand on his left hip, fluctuating from joy to irritation at remembering their promise.

“You’re lucky my parents aren’t listening.” Davie sighs. “You still going to call me Davie?”

“Of course I will, you hate it.” With a flash of white teeth and a bright grin to match, Davie doesn’t have a moment of realisation. He’d missed his friend, despite the years, all along.

“How is Hartford?” The freckly boy ardently asks, clasping his hands together. Tucker grabs his wrist to drag him away, hunting down the cat like their routine once followed.

“She’s missed you as much as I have.” To his surprise, Hartford has awoken from her slumber and pattered out to the garden, her tail fluttering behind her. She can sense Davie’s presence, Tucker suspects.

Two weeks straight of rain had disappeared today. Tucker isn’t superstitious, but he thinks Davie is the reason the sun comes out.

“You’re telling me everything that happened while you were away,” Tucker demands, flopping down in their usual spot underneath the tree that dominated the front of the garden. He watches the retreating clouds march past, not finding a single shape but for a few sheep.

“Five years is a long time,” Davie absently replies, rubbing Hartford’s ears lovingly. “Oh, I missed you _so_ much, sweetie, aw, aren’t you so cute?”

“I missed you too, Davie, didn’t know you thought I was cute.” Tucker sits up to wink at him until he depressingly realises Davie was referring to the cat. He slumps back and groans, covering his eyes at his close friend’s antics.

“What?” the blond boy looks over from his crouch, his faded jeans straining against his bent knees, a grey polo shirt baggy. Tucker always liked the fact they dressed similarly.

“I don’t know how you do it, but you have more freckles than last time.”

“Yes, Tucker, that happens. You’re not just born with freckles and that’s your allotment for life,” Davie patronises Tucker as he removes his arms to pull up grass. He watches the brown eyes that hadn’t changed, alongside the mid-length bush of hair on his friend.

“Well, I’m never going to be able to count them all now. Why do you have to make everything harder?” Tucker stops. “ _Bow chicka bow wow_.”

Davie grumbles, “That was the worst catchphrase, ever. Of all time.” He goes back to playing with Hartford’s paws.

“I just hope you don’t continue _that,_ dude. That’s weak!” Tucker rolls on his side to closely observe the cat’s behaviour with Davie. Yup, he was definitely right. There was an affinity between the two, since Hartford had scratched his cheek.

They settle into a companionable silence, only interrupted by a check-up from their respective fathers and beckoning for dinner. Tucker comes knocking on the door as soon as he is free, returning to a familiar room that had been left empty for five years. The sheets are the same grey, the action figures in their rightful place.

“Hey, Tucker,” Davie starts to question from his bed. “Do you know about the soul mate stuff?”

“I only did recently,” he tightly replies, crossing his arms from the floor below the bed. There are no posters adorning the room, but with the warm bedside lamp the light yellow paint is comforting. “My dad’s soul mate left him.”

“Oh.” The blond pauses for a while to consider. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how adults keep so much from us for so many years, then we’re 12 and they expect us to understand it all.”

“Probably so we don’t get pens and write celebrity names on parts of our body and pretend they’re our soul mates. Something dumb like that.”

“I wonder who’ll my soul mate will be?” Davie places his chin on his hand, in shallow thought. “I guess we’ll have to find out when we’re twenty, then. What’s with the age restriction, anyway?”

“How should I know? It’s all dumb anyway. I’ll probably never meet them.” Tucker spreads all the way out, crossing his arms and wishing they could drop the conversation. “It’s just stuff that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s pretty dumb, but it still makes me worry. What if I don’t like them and I have to marry them?”

“You don’t have to,” Tucker sits up briskly. “I’ll make sure of that.” He tries to reach a superhero pose from a seated position, but ends up failing abysmally. Davie gets a hearty laugh out that – deeper, more distinct since five years ago – and Tucker considers that good enough.

Time isn’t enough for the two. Tucker realises he’ll have to get used to losing Davie. He wishes Davie could stay with him, live with he and his dad and Hartford. He’d be happy for a long time.

It’s autumn this goodbye, just two woollen scarves between them. Tucker still shivers because he knows how long they were separated before.

He just hopes he does come back, because Davie didn’t give him a pinky promise. (He said they were growing up).

Tucker doesn’t want to grow up without Davie.

\---

“You’ve got stop obsessing over David,” his father says to Tucker, pointing at him with a fork. “You’re sixteen. Find other friends.”

Tucker is silently angry. “You don’t understand. He’s my best friend, my _only_ friend. Everybody sucks here. Even the teachers suck! You don’t _know_ what it feels like having to say goodbye like that.” He slides the plate away, leaving it half uneaten with the twisting of his stomach. Their tiny kitchen is full of knick-knacks that Tucker had picked up over the years, bits and pieces that reminded him of Davie. Cat figurines, miniature skateboards – he even learnt to properly skate now – pictures of Hartford, who passed away a year ago.

“No, I do.” He stands up to set the remnants into a container to store away in the fridge. With his current state, Tucker ignores the meaning behind his father’s statement.

“I think I’ll go to bed now.” He stands up and set the chair behind him, heading for his room. Davie had given him his action figures, so he had more room for photos of Tucker and Hartford to take with him.

They’d bought a camera last time Davie was here, and captured moments together and in the garden, on walks to the shops, weekend raids of kitchen when his father worked. Some were goofy, Tucker hanging upside-down from a tree branch (Davie becoming increasingly panicked for Tucker), some were serious, watching the wildlife in the conservation park.

At least there was always a bit of back home – here, home was with Tucker for Davie – for Davie, so he knows where to come back to.

Bits of Davie in his room made him mellow every evening. With his father’s harsh words, he wondered if Davie missed him as much as he did right now. Maybe he should move on.

(He won’t, Tucker doesn’t see the point in doing so, but sometimes he likes thinking of things he’ll never do e.g. his homework).

It’s not a restless sleep, nor is it a peaceful one. Tucker typically relishes the comfort of his sheets, but this summer is sticking to him more so than any preceding it.

Normally Saturdays signal relaxation for Tucker, but he spends more time dwelling on Davie, as he sits in the garden where Hartford used to. Their spot feels empty, with just one member of their group left. It’s been four years, and when he was seven he should have not clung to Davie like a security blanket.

Perhaps he could label it childishness, call it clinging to the one person that made him less lonely, that was his real friend. He wasn’t an outcast; no, the other kids just didn’t _click._ Not the way Davie did. Maybe if he and Davie had avoided each other, he wouldn’t constantly compare every blond to him, every freckle, and every person once in a while with grey eyes.

It’s unhealthy, logically. Tucker gives up contemplation and settles for trying to find shapes in the sky, pursuit of a pastime he shared with Davie. A car comes chugging down the street, sounding like a cylinder was missing. He won’t admit to himself that he earnestly wishes each old car to be Davie’s.

It’s in his favour, this time. They don’t address each other across the street, Tucker doesn’t come bounding to Davie.

He’s quite comfortable here in the grass. (His speculation that weather stays fair for Davie has stood true for three arrivals and two goodbyes).

“Tucker,” he hears the familiar voice, deeper than last. Tucker knows he’s seventeen now (he considers the maturity gap between sixteen and seventeen) and discovers a puffy cat in the clouds, a helmet, and a candy cane.

“Davie.” He sits up on his elbows to assess his ever returning friend. Almost 5’11 now, slender still, infinitely more freckles, and the same taste in clothing. The jeans almost look like they belonged to thirteen year old Davie, but he knows they’d be too small now. Tucker stands up slowly to greet his Davie, scowling at the two inch difference in height. The difference was just enough to aggravate him, yet not represent a huge berth.

“Don’t call me Davie,” he says. “You know that.” He looks down to his feet and back up to meet Tucker’s eyes.

“Have I listened once, dude?” He supposes this weekend isn’t so bad after all. “How long do you think you’ll have this time?”

Knowing he will have to leave, Tucker bargains having a date to plan for will allow him to make the most of the time he has with Davie.

“A few years, actually.” Davie is failing to suppress a grin. “I’m finishing school here, my parents will return back to service. They’re not sure where I’ll stay, though, but we’ve got time to consider that.”

The news hits Tucker like a train, as he realises he had his eyes closed. “Wait, seriously? That long?”

“Yeah, it’s hard to believe now, after so long of moving about, never really stopping.” Davie motions for them to sit together, crossing his legs and expectantly looking at Tucker. “Where’s Hartford? I’ve missed her.”

Tucker gulps, annoyed at the lump in his throat at thinking about not just Hartford herself, but Davie and her together. “She… she passed away last year. I took more photos, though, so you can see her when she was healthy.”

There’s silence between them for a few passing moments. Hartford had a bond with Davie that was unbreakable.

“She liked you a whole lot fucking more than me,” Tucker jokes, attempting to lighten the mood. “Hartford wasn’t young when we found her, y’know. She’s lucky for how long she was around.”

“I wasn’t there for her.” His tone is defeated. “I should have been.”

“No, stop, Davie.” Tucker crawls forward to rest his hands on Davie’s shoulders. “She was the happiest when you could be there. You can’t change what happens. Besides, how do you think _I_ feel when you leave?”

The blond swallows, “I don’t like leaving either.” Tucker tightens his grip, trying to be reassuring (not something he’s skilled at, but anything for Davie).

“Well, harden the fuck up, man. You’re here now.” He removes his hands but stays close, making sure Davie is still all right. “Besides, Hartford _was_ a pretty pissy cat.”

“That’s just because you can’t comprehend cats the same way I can.” The superior tone in his voice is returning, which Tucker is glad of.

“Well, I can fucking skate better than you can.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. You’ve got potential, but you can’t beat me.” They stand up at once, eye to eye.

“Prove it.”

“The marines were _scared_ of me flying through the deck. I went by so fast, I gave them whiplash.”

“All talk, no walk!”

(Tucker almost breaks his little toe after falling off, Davie laughs because of _course_ Tucker was _so much better_ than Davie on a skateboard).

It’s a few weeks later, winding down in Tucker’s bedroom. The action figures still have their home with Tucker.

“You know, there’s something that’s completely crossed my mind for years.”

Tucker blinks one eye open. “What?” Davie fidgets for few seconds, repositioning some of the characters and removing dust.

“What’s your full name?” he asks eventually, turning to look behind him at Tucker’s stationary form on his bed.

“Lavernius Tucker.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “ _What?”_ Davie stomps over swiftly to Tucker. “You’re telling me – _all these years –_ I’ve been addressing you by your last name and you didn’t even _tell me?”_ He looks personally offended at the lack of information provided by his friend in front of him.

“I didn’t like Lavernius back then, and I did _not_ want to be nicknamed _Vern,”_ he replies casually. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal? _The big deal?_ I didn’t even know your first name!” He huffs exasperatedly, waving his hands about as he talked. “So you can get away with calling me Davie, and you’re frightened about your first name?”

“Nah, it just slipped my mind.” Paying little attention to Wash’s outburst, he slips off his t-shirt and reclines back again.

“It feels wrong to call you Vern now, so I guess you’re lucky there. You can’t always rely on luck.” He jumps on the bed, tired from travel and skateboarding and dealing with his (Hartford was as much his as Tucker’s) cat’s death. “Do you mind if I sleep here?”

“Yeah, dude, it’s a double.” Tucker hops off to start stripping. Davie begins to do the same, except he opts to fold his clothes in an orderly manner whilst Tucker chucks his on the ground. The light switch at the front of the room needs to be turned off (Davie goes through a mental checklist every night before bedtime, so when out amongst the stars it always felt like a proper bedtime, but here at Tucker’s it feels safe and like bed anyway).

The room is plunged into darkness, not even moonlight filtering through the two windows in the room. Blind, Davie stumbles through the path he remembers, toppling on top of Tucker, chest to chest.

Tucker can feel the blush burning of the boy, so saves him the embarrassment and slides him off himself.

(In the morning, they avoid mentioning the fact they awoke spooning. Davie didn’t do anything, he swears).

“Hey, Davie?” Tucker asks as said boy is forcing Tucker to brush his teeth. “Why don’t you just live here with me when your parents leave?” He continues rinsing, and considers his answers for a few moments.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Hey, you looked after my cat, it’s only fair I look after you.”

He stops and blinks a few times. “You just compared me to a cat.”

“All’s fair in fur and paw.”

Wash grimaces, combing his hair. “So we’ve moved from sexual innuendo to terrible puns? You don’t improve with age, that’s for sure.”

“Well, gee, don’t take me up my offer, man,” Tucker spitefully responds, hands on his hips.

“It would be great, if your dad was okay with it. My parents wouldn’t mind, no point keeping the house across the road anyway.”

“Yeah!” Tucker whooped and smacked Davie’s arse. He blushed, blurring his freckles.

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

“You wouldn’t, man.” Tucker smirks to the reflection of the boy beside him in the mirror.

Lavernius Tucker could say the next few years were the best he’s had. Living with his best friend – well, argumentative, more-of-a-commanding-officer- friend, but friend nonetheless – was essentially what every teenager envisioned.

Davie ordered him up out of bed early, “Because that’s the way it was in space, that’s the way it is now,” was his reasoning. He had a subtle way of getting Tucker to exercise, like sending him to buy the local newspaper, or lumping him with walking their elderly neighbour’s dogs (the very neighbour that taught Tucker to swear; Tucker idolised the man, they had him around for dinner some nights).

His wife – his soul mate – had passed away long before he’d moved in beside Tucker, and apparently had wished he’d had a son or daughter like Tucker. It was a sad tale, but the man was full of crude jokes that made Tucker giggle like a schoolboy again.

Things worked out on that spectrum. Tucker’s father couldn’t _believe_ the situation they’d landed themselves in – _Davie_ living with them now, getting Tucker into order. He was just grateful Tucker had begun brushing his teeth. Less cost on dental bills, anyway.

Tucker also figures it’s more cost-effective to still share the same bed. There’s no motive, and Davie doesn’t protest, and the mattress _is_ nice. More than once or twice they end up cuddling. It’s like, platonic cuddling in bed. With legs tangled.

By the time they graduate high school, they decide to stay in the one spot, for Davie’s sake. Miraculously, Tucker applies for an apprenticeship as an electrician and is accepted; Davie has no issues landing a job at the local pet rescue centre. Now he gets paid to look after cats.

Davie avoids mentioning his enrolment into the military. He’s due to leave on his 20th birthday – the day he finds out who his soul mate is.

There was a project that was being put in motion by one of his father’s close friends; they’d never served together, but he remembers being stationed on the Mother of Invention when he 9. The Director of the project saw ‘potential’ in him.

Realistically, this is the path he should take. It’s the environment he grew up in, and as he once said to Tucker: it’s in his blood.

He wakes early, before Tucker, on his birthday, anticipating the words to appear somewhere.

There is no name. (Davie might admit he wished it was Tucker. He won’t go into detail how he feels.

All right.

 _Maybe_ he did----)

His reverie is interrupted by a knock to the door. He’s in casual clothing, and has the leather suitcase with cat stickers and a skateboard drawn in pen with him. Tucker and Hartford are preserved in picture form.

“Good morning, David. It’s an honour to meet you.”

“I’m just his son. Let’s get out of here.”

Tucker wakes up four hours later, finding a note beside his bed and Davie’s rarely used glasses left behind.

_Tucker,_

_I’m sorry I’m leaving you again. There’s an opportunity for something great here. Something that could win the war and end the conflict._

_Make it a safer place for people like your dad and your neighbour, for cats like Hartford._

_I don’t have a name on my wrist. I wished it was different, you know. Maybe you can guess. Maybe not._

_I’ll come back, I swear. Pinky promise._

_Your Davie. x_

Tucker cusses and swears and wants to rip the paper in half. Again. This was now the third time, and this time – no goodbye.

And possibly not even five years until he sees him, maybe never.

Tucker is 19 and he can make adult choices. Yes, he can. He follows the next logical choice of action, signs straight up for the nearest ‘project’ he can find.

It’s not the same garden without Hartford and Davie. Not the same tree or the same summer, not the same bed in his room.

Davie took all the photos.

\---

(Tucker goes through the hoops; explains to his father; waits, joins up, boards the pelican. Boards the next cruiser, goes through BASIC training. Completely coasts it, hopes he can find his Davie because now Davie isn’t taken away from him; he’s gone on his own will).

And that’s how he ends up in this canyon, Blood Gulch, with a leader who dies before he even gets the fucking sniper rifle and a jerk with a temper that makes Tucker want to beat him over the head with a rock for it. He fucking hates the heat here. Summer means nothing to him.

Lavernius still has no idea how what they did passed as proper training. It was essentially a guidebook with diagrams showing how _not_ to use an assault rifle.

Date is meaningless here, too, and he doesn’t realise it’s his twentieth birthday until he looks at the little miniature calendar Davie had left as a surprise behind. A different cat quote for every month.

He’s in the base showers – avoiding Church at all costs, and Caboose who would probably manage to drown him – when he notices the name.

It feels like he’s staring down the barrel of Sheila, as his stomach plummets.

_\---  
_

Agent Washington is awake, bright and early by 4am. He checks the calendar, remembering today’s schedule.

And he looks at the date that he couldn’t forget (Tucker’s birthday, if only he could---)

He moves onto the showers, hurriedly moving until he hears York behind him.

“Ooh, is it your birthday, ‘ey, Wash?” He stops scrubbing and turns his head slightly.

“What, York?”

“You got somebody’s name on the back of your hip. Why’d you not tell me it was today, anyway?”

Washington considers this. “I’m 21, it’s – it’s not my birthday. It’s my friend’s, Tucker’s. What point are you trying to make?”

There’s no reply from the man, until he replies in a playful tone, “Well, looks like he’s your soul mate, then. Hope you can find that buddy of yours.”

Once Wash has leapt out of the shower, he uses two mirrors to inspect the lettering. 

But that’s enough for now. Goodness knows where he is.

\---

His time in the desert made him a certifiable bad-ass, and now he had to rejoin the Reds and Blues to stop the Meta. It was an altogether _joyful_ ride.

Davie hasn’t been on his mind whilst he’s been trying to _not die._ Errantly, he could consider this the remedy to feeling that had plagued him since he first met the boy.

Where ever Church managed to fuck up – bring back his ex-girlfriend, get shot in the leg by her – they were all dragged along. All right, he didn’t like risking life and limb, but the adrenaline rushes were nice.

Grif also demonstrated adaptable skill when given a vehicle. The issue he had was _landing_ it. Their spectacular entrance to the battlefield where it seemed Church’s shit was being severely fucked up saved them time against the beast that had interrupted their momentary peace.

(Tucker, offhandedly, thinks it won’t be Davie not coming back, it will be Tucker himself).

Damn, he’s gotta admit, he gets the best hit in the Meta. Sarge’s ensnarement of the Meta and the proceeding melodrama didn’t concern him by this point. Well, he’d kind of ignored all talk up to the point where he knew the Meta was safely off the cliff.

The soldier before him looks damaged, but since he was a Freelancer there was no doubt he wouldn’t survive.

He and Grif are probably the last two who should have been left with a wounded soldier, but they wouldn’t have been any help with Church.

Doc wanders over, listing out loud the injuries and attempting to – because that’s Doc, Doc _tries_ and then uselessly comments on your pregnancy – help.

When he is roused later – given a chance, taking Church’s armour – and Tucker hears his voice first, well, it’s not just his stomach that drops this time. He can feel his own aqua-turquoise armour intensifying in weight, his shoulders sag.

Davie. _Agent Washington_ is _Davie._ (The state name and last name click together).

When Tucker talks back, he’s hoping the helmets at least make his voice sound a little different – maybe he’s a distant memory, as Davie might not be Davie anymore.

The visor flicks to Tucker’s. They can’t read each other’s faces, so Tucker will play dumb for a little bit. He’d rather escape right now.

Wash wonders why they gave him a second chance – why he deserved it, and Tucker shoots off a response about Caboose and Caboose calls the shots anyway.

Tucker remembers the little blue car that pulled in the first time, and realises it matches Davie’s armour now, except for the yellow stripes. He remembers when it was getting too old to function, but still keeping on.

It’s at that point he remembers Davie doesn’t have his name.

In the flight back to Valhalla, damn, Davie can _shoot,_ he tries to not speak, but Davie is forcing it out.

“How were you able to secure a Pelican?” he asks, directly looking at Tucker.

“Freelancer facility, Grif’s malleability, and Sarge’s creativity.” He laughs shortly to himself. “I can rhyme, man. I should start doing raps.”

“I would advise against that coinciding with your military career.” It’s mysterious, watching Davie in a suit and a helmet, where he can’t begin counting freckles.

“Your name is David, right?” he asks boldly.

“Yes, how do you know?”

“You used to be called Davie.”

There’s a pause that leaves their visors in a staring competition.

“So it is you. I wasn’t sure.”

Tucker sharply laughs and draws his helmet off. “Hell, I wasn’t fucking waiting for Davie to come back. I fucking joined just to find you.”

Davie puts his head between his legs and then looks back up. “You’re telling me, that you _risked your life_ just in the _off chance_ that you found me? Do you realise – do you _realise_ how dangerous that is? What it would have been like for me to come back home to that little house and find you gone, too, and Hartford’s grave? The odds – the _chances_ -that’s why I couldn’t believe it would be you. And how did you manage to get that sword?”

Davie takes off his helmet, and Tucker can plainly see the freckles still adorning his face. His favourite sits just on the tip.

“Dude, you said I wasn’t your mark. I wake up on my fucking birthday in Blood Gulch, and I’ve got _David Washington_ fuckin’ written on me.”

They share an amazed look – the absolute fucking possibility of this happening was almost 1 to 100 000 – and then Davie adds, “I wake up on your birthday, and York is telling me I have _Lavernius Tucker_ on my hipbone.”

“So like, we did not platonically cuddle, right?”

“No, no, we didn’t.”

Tucker reaches across and grabs Davie’s hands, briefly applying pressure then letting go. “So I suppose now you're officially my commanding officer too. Childhood dream come true."

"I like the other title a bit better now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know how to improve  
> 


	2. le bateau ivre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah, but you’re never alone!  
> 500 million stars are laughing alongside you."
> 
> it fits in a sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup  
> comment if you like

When David was just a kid, a kid with dreams of Growing Up and Money and being able to buy all the comic books he wanted and candy he could grab, he loved science fiction. His favourites were the ones about _alternate universes._ Where in one, Davie was a space hero (he didn’t turn out to be the hero), or maybe one where he was a surfer that lived in Hawaii. In another he was a knight, set out to rescue a prince or princess, he befriended dragons (Davie didn’t want to kill them) and ate blueberry pie. Knights did that.

Sometimes he’d lay on Tucker’s lawn with Hartford and conjure images of great battles, or maybe he’d quieten it down with owning a library. He would make sure Tucker would be the one to put books away (that was the boring part), and he’d be the one to help out other little kids with finding the _best_ novel. Davie wouldn’t categorise the sections by contemporary means – _oh no, Davie was better than that –_ he’d have ‘Favourite Cat Books with Cute Ragdolls’ and ‘Science Fiction that made me Scared’ and ‘Stories That Made Me Really Sad’ or ‘Stories That Were Really Funny, Then I Cried and the Author Tricked me Really Badly’. He’d have the very best. It was idyllic.

When Tucker would drag him back to reality, he’d savour the moment before he’d have to head back with his parents aboard the ship. Being with his best friend was _his_ world, and he really liked it. Liked it a lot. He hated leaving, hated having to say good bye. So when he was aboard the starships, he’d skate down the hallways in remembrance of the rebellious nature of Tucker. It was the best he could do.

So what did Davie do then?

Alternate universes, he hypothesised, were painted with varying colours. By the way they could be sorted, so the Universe Overseer (aka himself) could differentiate between all the universes. The one _he_ lived in now was aqua. The next one with the café he owned was teal, which was one he had trouble differentiating with and when he asked Tucker how to, he shrugged his shoulders in that nonchalant fashion.

The one that was a soft rose pink was special. He didn’t ever think about it often, but when he looked at Tucker he _really, really_ felt warm.

When Davie started getting older his parents tried to ask about these ideas, tried to understand the worlds. They were interested. Maybe they thought he missed Earth, and Tucker, and he _did._ So he substituted with the surreal and pretended he didn’t care, shut them out in teenage angst. (He has a suspicion his mother knew).

But then it all comes back the day he finds a photograph of Tucker. The beaming face of the two, scrunched together in the garden they spent hours in. The black skin of Tucker’s contrasted against his own white alabaster skin, with freckles galore. They fitted together, and Davie _knew_ that.

And that’s when he started thinking about the universes again. It was a childish, nostalgic endeavour. Perhaps he deserved admonishment from the chef in the mess hall for his absent looks. He kept his manners, of course, but his blue eyes would wander off. Everybody could tell. It was a matter of them _caring._

So he didn’t really have a problem with it.

In the world he colour-codes a sold white with gold flecks, he and Tucker are travelling photographers. They drink up ancient civilisations part-time, capture moments in stillness. He writes poetry and Tucker reads it and laughs.

Another that’s painted a musky maroon, he and Tucker live in the distant past. Davie is a pioneering existentialist of his time, puts soliloquies to paper and Tucker knocks on his door in the evening and they drink cold coffee together.

These tales make Davie feel unique. Special.

His favourite, above all – above every creation of his – is the one where he never leaves. Where he stays living across the road from Tucker, and they walk to school together and walk home and spend weekends eating biscuits and sitting in the garden and finding toadstools and reading books together. And the and’s go on and they are beautiful, to Davie. He strives for the simplicity. The unique lack of ‘unique’. As they are Davie and Tucker, bound by a bond indecipherable.

Unfortunately (a word Davie hates), that’s not his aqua universe. That one’s periwinkle. Periwinkle, a colour he loves so: a colour as confusing as turquoise.

The worlds are not all utopias.

The darker ones always come from darker moods, where Davie so desperately misses the short moments with Tucker and desperately suffers from nostalgia not his. He clasps his hands and imagines worlds where he dies, Tucker dies, the news comes to both of them and hearts are broken.

Tucker and Davie argue, words are daggers and the pair are made of glass, and they are thrown to the floor and shatter upon impact like porcelain dolls. They are the worst. They _could be together_ but aren’t. And that hurts. Even though it hasn’t happened, the very thought. Davie had a way of digging himself in deep woe with even a brisk image.

Sometimes they are Shakespeare and Homer and Dante personified. They are great tragedies and comedies, and things just _are._ They are existence.

Maybe Davie thinks about this too much.

He doesn’t tell Tucker about it for embarrassment. Tucker could see Davie as somebody trying to attain something he can’t have, or approaching something out of reality. A worthless goal, to many, and so when he reads his sci-fi books he keeps it to himself.

Then the Great War morphs into a greater conflict than he imagined. He joins.

He hates aqua.

\--

“So, Wash, what’re you thinkin’ about?” York interrupt’s Washington’s reverie. He looks up at the brunet. They’ve only been at Project Freelancer for a few weeks, and York has already managed enough sarcasm to last them for years.

“Just… I don’t know, weird stuff, I guess,” he replies, flicking a pencil between his fingers. The commune room is smaller than most, cosy. He’s been scribbling on a piece of paper, cats and squiggles that mean nothing to anybody else.

“You can’t surprise me.” He laughs at his own remark and slides into a seat. “I’ve seen enough weird from you so far, kiddo.”

“Stop calling me kiddo, would you?” Wash huffs. “Alternate universes. That kind of thing.”

“What?”

“Like other worlds. One where you’re not an asshole.”

“Ooh, burn, Wash.” York shuffles as he is wont to do, cupping his chin. “Tell me more about these _alternate universes._ ”

“They’re not that important. Just ones where we’re bakers, or study Latin. But I don’t think I’d be good at Latin.”

“Maybe Ancient Greek?” The light flickers and highlights the features of York, momentarily frightening Wash. “You’re a baby.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault the lighting here apparently sucks.” He looks around the room again for any signs of space rats – North warned him about them, apparently ‘quite devilish’ – and turns back to York. “And I think I’d be bad at Ancient Greek, too. That’s old.”

“Yeah, that’s why they call it _ancient._ Do you learn English too?”

“Yes, in fact I do.”

“Sure, kiddo. I’m sure Carolina’d disagree.”

North enters and Wash drifts off into subspace again. Tucker is never a part of them anymore, memories he’s tucked away, too fresh to face. He wishes…

Well, he chose this. Grit and bear it, Agent Washington.

In bed at night though, he indulges. Tucker is a stranger he bumps into along the street, they say hello and goodbye and _I’m sorry._ It’s a brusque interaction. It’s enough.

\--

“C’mon, Wash, I know you now. What’s up?” North asks in his almost motherly tone, a sense of care he can convey unlike the others. A man that could in one moment greet with ‘how are you?’ and then next shotgun a man in the chest.

“You know.”

“Oh, daydreaming. You really get caught up in that sometimes, huh?”

“I guess.”

“C’mon, we got training soon. Snap out of it, kiddo.”

“It’s been two years and you still call me that. Thanks, North.”

“No problem, York and I are here to support you.”

“I doubt the sincerity of that statement.”

\--

“One day you’re going to slip out during combat, and it will be your fault.” Carolina slaps him on the back, dragging her feet past. He’s stuck in the same seat he’s occupied for years in between training, missions, the daily life of an Agent.

“I’m careful about it, Carolina, I swear,” he says, scratching his wobbly nose.

She turns to him with a serious expression, converse to her joking manner before. “You saw what happened to York. That wasn’t even dreaming, Wash. Be careful, would you?”

“I only do it here, boss.”

“Calling me ‘boss’ isn’t going to make me softer.” She settles into a chair and pulls places a chart on the table. “You’re up tomorrow morning with C.T. for training.”

“Ah, great.”

“You’ll do fine, you baby. She’s not the best of us, but Wash, watch out for a knife to the back.”

“I learnt last time.”

\--

“C.T.’s dead.” They come back from the mission.

That day, he makes sure to always have a world that is a dusty brown with a hint of gold, just for her. Where she’s happy and not hurt, and he owns a pet store with her. They live together in an apartment with Tucker, and have a kitten. Scratch that: lots of kittens. So many kittens. He has a blackboard with Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays for her to cook dinner, with an affectionate ‘ _Connie’_ written in Tucker’s messy scrawl. They run movie marathons after ice-cream and Tucker begins to like her. He wishes Tucker could’ve met her, in the aqua world. They might have got along.

\--

Epsilon is implanted.

Aqua has quickly become pain, has quickly become _not-Davie._ Allison. Allison.

                He creates a universe to separate himself from her and _Leonard._ Tries and tries to separate it as a disparate entity. He fails, fails, fails: he is the Alpha and Allison is dying, he is the Director who cannot bring her back. He is Epsilon, removed in an attempt to create battle and calculations and warfare and move the pain and loss of _her_ of _Allison_ from his mind and the sentences never stop they continue and loop and is his name Agent Washington is his name Leonard who is he where does he belong why is this happening to his _mind_

\--

His name appears on his hip.

The aqua world is the worst and best. It is ice and fire and menacing and heartbreak and loss and love. He hates it and loves it.

His universes never allowed cosmic fate to intervene. It separated them from this one. Where Epsilon implanted itself, committed suicide.

\--

When he finds York’s dead body he creates a universe for him, too: it’s tan with white and also sea foam in memory of Carolina.

They all live together in one big house. There is no Project Freelancer. There is no more to describe.

Agent Washington swears to himself he will put away childish things. Except for this time, he promises.

\--

He paints purple and bright green, littered with strikes of blue and fair yellow. He and North live in a cottage, they plant sunflowers and walk to the market together.

North is alive, in this one.

The last time, he solemnly commands himself. It’s a coping mechanism. Pursuit of younger days. (He's sure now space rats don't exist).

\--

Wash imagined worlds where he met himself, a shifter jumping between universes. He wonders what periwinkle-him thinks of who he is. What maroon-him thinks. Countless iterations of himself, like the Alpha, Epsilon, the Director. Wonders if he could say to them: _I’m you._

Wonders if he could say that whilst siding with the Meta.

Maine had his own world, too – it was a quiet place. Not on Earth, on a distant planet with no night skies. Only endless days, because Maine _loved_ the sunshine and hated staying indoors; he’d escape the med-bay not fully healed just in tail for some UV rays. He loved missions out in the open.

Wash makes sure to remember who Maine was. There’s also no needles.

He doesn’t look at his hip. 

\--

When he hears that _voice_ – no. It couldn’t be. By all means and statistics, the probability and maths and he can hear Delta and York bantering about it in his head, this couldn’t happen.

Such a shame it was going to do when he planned on dying. (He knows there are beautiful and bright worlds where he and Tucker meet in a park, Tucker has an annoying dog and Davie turns his nose up at it. Davie smiles and looks at the cute boy, though, and considers that he would probably have a dog if he could be with somebody who had a smile like that).

When they fly away like all the dreams he had, and he hears ‘Your name is David, right?’ Wash answers back.

‘You used to be called Davie.’

It's like every universe mashed into one colour.

\--

Carolina returns and he makes sure that in York's world, she always comes back for him, too.

\--

He sits with Tucker later, much later, when they’ve crashed and everything is done with the Director and he pretends to not know there’s a sniper watching them.

He tells Tucker all about the universes. Every single bit. _How he never wanted to forget, but he did for a while, but he kept that dumb photograph of when we were 16._

The photograph is pulled out from his storage on his back, shows Tucker. They laugh at the gel Davie had put in his hair that one day and how _silly_ it looked.

\--

He pulls it out again later at the Federal Army base.

Constructs a world where he bludgeons Locus and asks _where are my men now, asshole?_

Hears Lopez mention space rats and oh, no. He thinks of North again and he _swore_ they weren't real after that time York teased him. He's only glad they landed on Chorus to discover this fact.

\--

There’s one where Wash is a musician. He forgot to list that one. He plays sombre music and droll melodies, strums a guitar as bad as Grif.

Simmons works the bar and Sarge is the senile old man who somehow is in charge of a pub. Donut is always Donut, universe to universe. He never changes from the eccentric and feminine man, proud of it and willing to show it.

Davie and Tucker hook up – small time stars – all the love songs are about each other. Tucker makes sure to get as many euphemisms in as possible.

\--

These ideas that he had collected for years probably never happened. Or they did, and no one has provided proof to Davie. He liked to think so, though, and maybe alternate universes aren’t that bad.

His universe was terrible. It was full of death, deceit, every bad word in the dictionary. But then again: there’s Davie and Tucker. It’s not too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. I hope you liked it!  
> ٩꒰ಂ❛ ▿❛ಂ꒱۶♡ ٩꒰๑ ´∇`๑꒱۶ ٩꒰๑• ̫•๑꒱۶♡


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